


An Apple-Pie Death

by HenryMercury



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cancer, Deathfic, Gen, Knitting, Post-8x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was knitting. Actually sitting by Sam's hospital bed, poking a set of plastic needles in and out of a bunch of wool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apple-Pie Death

**Author's Note:**

> At first I just wanted to write something in which Sam's hair disappeared. Then I went and turned into one of those assholes who writes this kind of thing. Apologies in advance.

Dean was knitting. Actually sitting by his hospital bed, poking a set of plastic needles in and out of a bunch of wool. Sam had seen things—crazy things—but that might just be the most absurd of them all.

He must have been looking at him strangely, since Dean stopped his tangling efforts for a moment and fixed him with a stare, concerned as ever.

“What, Sammy? Do you need something?”

“You’re knitting,” Sam replied, attempting a chuckle. The whole thing came out as more of a wheezy splutter.

“Damn right I’m knitting, and you’re gonna thank me for it soon enough. You’ve lived your whole life with that ridiculous mane to keep you warm in the winter…” Dean trailed off and let his eyes settle on the half-formed beanie in his lap once more. He looked even more in pain than Sam felt, and he wished briefly that he could swap their places and take on what his brother was feeling. Which was ridiculous, because Dean wasn’t the one who was sick. Their whole lives had been such an insane dance of attempted self-sacrifice that none of it even made sense anymore.

Sam scratched absently at his bare scalp. It _was_ kind of cold. He was getting used to the emptiness there, though, since the last chunks of hair had been flushed down the rusty drain of some cheap motel shower. By then, it hadn’t exactly been a surprise.

“I just never pictured you as the grandmotherly type. Hell, our grandmothers probably weren’t really the grandmotherly type,” he said.

Dean grunted. “Well dying of cancer ain’t exactly the Winchester way, either, is it.”

Sam knew exactly what was rattling around in his brother’s head; they were the same thoughts that had driven Dean since they were kids, since Dean had first taken it upon himself to blanket Sam from everything dark, to cop every bullet he possibly could for him. His brother had saved him from monsters and spirits and all things murderous and supernatural—but in the end Sam’s downfall had always been in his blood. That one part of his blood that he didn’t share with Dean.

“It’s okay,” he said, for the hundred-thousandth time that day alone. He didn’t pretend to believe Dean would ever accept it, but Sam still felt a little better with each repetition. Recognised a little bit more of the truth in those words.

Dean shook his head and looked like he was trying to pin down his anger and despair before they clawed their way out through his mouth or ran from his eyes. Sam hated how easy it had become to forget entirely what his brother looked like when he _wasn’t_ wearing that expression.

“You die on me, Sammy, and I swear to God I will tear down Cas’ door and shout until he drags your ass back down here. Then I’ll skewer you myself,” he brandished the knitting needle threateningly. Sam could imagine that.

“I know, Dean. But… you’ve got to let it happen, this time. There’s nothing so unnatural here; no demons or curses, no Lucifer. Just… dying, the same way thousands of other normal people are right now. An apple-pie death. Promise me that?”

“I… yeah, Sam. Whatever you want.”

Which might have been Dean-speak for _no way is this conversation over_ , but at least he was considering it _._ Sam knew what Dean had done for Lisa, making her forget him and everything that had happened, and he understood why now more clearly than ever. Wondered whether taking all memories of himself away when he went would help, or just rip out so much of who Dean was that his brother would be left hollower than the loss itself could make him.

Perhaps Sam should have said something sooner; let Dean know about the dizziness, the vomiting and blood and deep-seated sense of something not quite right, and told him as soon as he received the diagnosis—but it would only have meant more angst and desperate searching for a cure which didn’t exist. More time spent soaking in regret of the fact that Sam’s blood was just _different,_ polluted by something demonic that had grown with him all his life, and choked any chance of a transplant, even from family. There’d have been no way Dean would’ve allowed him to perform the tests necessary to close the gates of Hell. If Sam regretted one thing, it was that he hadn’t been able to finish them; that now Dean would start them over, alone, and throw himself into the jaws of _literally_ god-only-knows-what when he shouldhave been able to live a life. To get out of this business if he wanted to; to go fishing in the clean dawn light, spend mornings with hands buried in the workings under the Impala’s hood, then head down to the pub for a couple of beers in the afternoons. Find a house and a girl to go home to. Maybe even be a dad to some lucky kid. It wasn’t just hunting that Dean was brilliant at.

Sam didn’t have the time left for any of that, but hopefully he’d be able to hear whispers of Dean’s happiness from wherever he ended up. He couldn’t let himself expect Heaven, but he was sure no corner of Hell his soul could be crammed into would compare to Lucifer’s cage. He decided that would have to do as comfort.

It wouldn’t do for Dean, though.

“You and I both know that Heaven exists,” Sam began, throat dry. “We’ve been there; we don’t even have to operate on any kind of faith to believe in it. I’ll see Mom again, and Jess, Jo, Ellen, even Pamela; Ash will sneak us around the place and we won’t take crap from any douchebag angel. And I’ll watch for a good few decades while you get yourself a beer gut and a mortgage, stick my photo next to Mom’s on your bookshelf and grow old and wrinkly enough for the both of us—and I’ll save a table at Harvelle’s Roadhouse-in-the-Sky for when you finally get there.”

Dean laughed mirthlessly. “Save me some pie,” he said, and Sam could roll with the jokes as a coping mechanism. Better that than taking a crowbar to his car the way he had when Dad had died.

“Alright grandma. Maybe you should learn to cook it yourself, instead of knitting?”

“Maybe I will,” Dean shot back. “After I finish making you this awesome hat.”

Sam was sleepy. He was always exhausted now, so deep within his bones that he couldn’t quite remember what it had been like to wake up keen to spring through a few miles’ jogging with his and Amelia’s dog.

He let his eyes close. “Tired,” he explained.

He heard the clack of Dean’s knitting needles starting up again, and focused on those little sounds, the sounds of Dean staying with him, as he began to drift off.

“That’s alright, Sammy,” his brother’s voice was soft, quiet as it could be without disappearing altogether in the back of his throat. “You sleep. I’ll be here.”


End file.
